Max didn’t glance up from his computer until he heard the familiar rumble of the mailman’s truck. Then he rose, stretched and walked down the long gravel driveway to the mailbox, its upright red flag visible between the two big cedar trees that guarded the front of the one-acre property.
As he strolled back to the house, sorting through the bills and flyers, he came upon a letter addressed to him in unfamiliar handwriting. Slowing his pace, he turned over the envelope and saw that the return address was Jackson, Wyoming.
Fourteen years ago he’d spent the summer after high school working on a dude ranch near Jackson. He hadn’t thought of the ranch in years, or of Lanni, the vivacious redhead who, with him, had had a job leading trail rides. They’d had a hot fling. The summer had ended. He and Lanni had parted, and he’d returned to Hainesville to marry Kelly, the only woman he’d ever loved.
His hands trembling slightly, Max inserted a finger beneath the flap and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a wallet-size photograph of a young teenage boy and a single page written in a small, very neat hand.
Dear Mr. Walker, My name is Randall and I’m your son.
Cold shock stopped Max in his tracks. Surely this couldn’t be happening…. And yet, at some deep level, he’d been waiting thirteen years for this letter.
Maybe you won’t want to hear from me, but I had to write. My adoptive parents know I’m contacting you. I have a good home with them and I don’t want to intrude on your life—I’d just like to know my biological father. I hope you understand. And I hope you’ll want to meet me, too….
Max lifted his face and gazed blindly into the bright blue sky. He had a son.
Like Max, Lanni had only been eighteen. When she’d gotten pregnant her parents had been adamant there would be no marriage or keeping the baby. Nor had he wanted to marry her. He’d wanted Kelly.
His and Lanni’s baby had been given away at birth; no one had ever told him the baby’s gender. Afterward they’d agreed there was no point in keeping in touch. All these years, he’d put the child’s existence out of his mind because it hurt too much to think of a son or daughter of his growing up somewhere, without him.
Kelly. He’d never told her about Lanni or the baby he’d fathered. To his shame, he’d always considered it a stroke of undeserved good fortune that she’d never found out.
Despite a breeze, perspiration dampened his hairline. If he wanted to meet Randall he would have to tell her now. But how? And how would she react? With their ongoing marital problems, could they survive the sudden appearance of his child by another woman? He and Kelly had been going together for two years before that summer. He’d already asked her to marry him.
Maybe he shouldn’t say anything to her about the boy. Maybe he should throw away the letter without replying, hang on to what he had….
Max turned to the photograph. Randall had straight red hair, severely cut and neatly combed, a smattering of freckles and a solemn smile. Gazing out from behind the chunky frames of his glasses were Max’s sky-blue eyes.
So this was his son.
Max loved his daughters with a ferocity and depth that constantly surprised him, and he would cut off both arms rather than hurt them, but…
In the deepest corner of his heart, in a place not even Kelly knew about, he’d always wanted a son. A boy to take fishing and shoot hoops with. A male compadre in a house full of females. A son who would carry on the Walker family name. Was he wrong to want all that? Max didn’t think so.
“I’M HOME!” KELLY KICKED OFF her shoes and dumped her purse on the hall table. From the family room at the back of the house she could hear the muffled sound of canned laughter on TV.
She poked her head into Max’s office; he wasn’t there. Architectural drawings were spread across his drafting table, the goosenecked lamp had been left on and his chair pushed back, as though he’d just stepped out for a moment.
Walking around Tammy’s—or was it Tina’s?— Barbie dollhouse, Kelly continued on to the family room, drawn by the smell of chili con carne—Max’s specialty. She hoped this didn’t mean they weren’t going out. Max was probably angry, because in spite of her promise, she was late. She swore that this weekend she would make it up to him.
The family room curtains were open, and visible through floor-to-ceiling windows were the twilit river and the forest beyond, and, of course, the extensive flower beds that ringed the lawn. Two pink-sock-clad feet dangled over the side arm of the couch—Beth, glued to her favorite TV show.
Max, his wheat-blond hair gleaming beneath halogen down lights, stood in the kitchen, dicing green peppers on a chopping board. An enormous bouquet of red roses arranged in a vase on the black granite benchtop sent out a faint sweet fragrance.
Max’s shoulders had that tight look they got when he was wrestling with a difficult design problem. She hoped he’d been able to finish the drawings for his client’s house so he could celebrate their anniversary. God knows, they both needed to set work and responsibilities aside and pay attention to each other for a change.
She dropped her keys on the sideboard and crossed the room to him. “Hi, Max. How was your day?”
“Kelly! I didn’t hear you come in.”
His upward glance of swiftly concealed guilt startled her. She was the one who ought to feel badly. She’d promised she wouldn’t be late tonight, and here he was making dinner—that was her job—instead of working on whatever problem he’d left on his drafting table.
“Sorry I’m late.” She circled one arm around his waist and reached up to remove the forgotten pencil tucked behind his ear. “Did you get your design finished?”
He shook his head and moved away to scrape the green pepper into the pot of chili simmering on the stove. “I called the client and told him it won’t be ready until next week.”
“I’m really sorry. Thanks for picking up the kids.” Damn. She always seemed to be apologizing on account of her job. With a sigh, she buried her nose in the roses. “These are gorgeous. Dare I hope they’re for me?”
“Of course they’re for you.”
“You sweetheart. You know what I like.”
“I know you’re crazy about flowers.” He put down the chopping board and pulled her into his arms. Kissed her mouth, then kissed her all over her face. “I love you, Kelly.”
“Max! Your hands are wet,” she protested, laughing, and slipped out of his embrace. He wasn’t usually so passionate at this time of day. And his not being annoyed with her was strange. She gestured to the chili pot. “We were going to order pizza for the kids.”
“I thought cooking might clear my head.”
“The house design giving you trouble?” She felt both sympathetic and guilty. In the old days, she would have been available for him to bounce ideas off of. Since she’d started working, she had become a source of problems for him instead of solutions.
Max turned away to stir the simmering pot with the wooden spoon he was holding. A tumbler of cola and ice sat on the benchtop beside the stove. “I haven’t been able to concentrate on it this afternoon. How did you do with the Harper house?”
Kelly scowled at the surge of frustration his question brought on. “Ray gave me such a hard time afterward. You’d think I was trying to ruin his business.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “Nothing so terrible. I simply pointed out to prospective buyers